THE SUBSTANCE

At long last, someone is brave enough to answer the question of whether there is anything grosser than watching Dennis Quaid eat shrimp.

In Coralie Fargeat’s arch satire of intense body horror, Demi Moore bares all as a gracefully aging Hollywood celebrity whose Oscar-winning career has dead-ended at a network exercise show. A mysterious subscription service allows her to live alternating weeks of her life as a more perfect version of herself. From the moment Margaret Qualley emerges from her back like Luke Skywalker from the tauntaun or Rebel Wilson from the catsuit in Cats, it’s a war for possession of agency. The special effects are outlandish, increasingly grotesque, and effective, but no amount of prosthetics rival the perfection of Qualley’s body or the power of Moore’s face as she contemplates her real face with anxious disgust as she prepares for a date.

THE ROOM NEXT DOOR:

The new Almodóvar — about a war correspondent facing her own mortality with the help of an old friend — is not good (bafflingly bad, even!), but we do get to hear Tilda Swinton say “the dark web” not once but twice. A real unforced error to have Tilda and Julianne both attempting to perform in English.

THE LIFE OF CHUCK:

Told in three acts in reverse, Mike Flanagan has made a lovely little Stephen King adaptation about how Tom Hiddleston came to be an exceptional dancer who contains multitudes. The ominous first act finds a town facing the end of the world — California falling into the sea, Pornhub gone, strange billboards everywhere, and other spooky occurrences. In the next, a man, a busker drummer, and a recently dumped bookseller find spontaneous connection. The final act goes back to the beginning, with a young boy beset by a tragedy yet finding a reason to twist and twirl. With an earnest touch and narration from Nick Offerman step back in time refracts and gifts new context to what came before (after), resulting in a surprisingly compelling case for embracing all of life’s possibilities and limitations.

ON SWIFT HORSES

I suppose it’s kinda cool that the hottest young stars now establish their cred by playing gay. In Daniel Minahan’s adaptation, at least Jacob Elordi and Daisy Edgar Jones avoid tragic weepy stereotypes in this handsome literary take on queer identities in the 1950s American west.

NIGHTBITCH

Marielle Heller & Amy Adams hold such empathy for the lonely messy prison of stay-at-home motherhood that the film often gets lost in a torrent of experiments, body horror, flashbacks, & strained metaphors. Scoot McNairy turns in sensitive work as the oft-absent father who means well, but is entirely unhelpful when he’s back at home. Adams is phenomenal as an artist who set her career aside to raise an adorable child; she sells the madness of isolation as her identity attempts to reclaim itself with hallucinations (maybe) that she’s turning into a dog. One of those movies that makes the intentionally childless congratulation themselves, or at least breathe a satisfied sigh of relief. Hardly the disaster many suspected from the trailer, yet it also never elevates to the insane promise of its title.

EDEN

Ron Howard dives into the dark scheming heart of humanity in a true story of self-promotional Galapagos settlers in the 1930s. Jude Law plays a German doctor trying to save the world through philosophy like a wild golden god king with Vanessa Kirby as his true-believing companion. A surprisingly capable Sydney Sweeney, Daniel Bruehl, and a very good boy German Shepherd show up as unlikely settlers who left their life behind for the sake of their son’s fragile lungs. Like a proto-White Lotus, the stacked cast absolutely feasts on campy drama, none more so than Anna de Armas as a Baroness hotelier channeling the scheming spirit of Anna Delvey. A bit soapy and silly, but also a tremendous amount of thought-provoking fun.

THE LAST SHOWGIRL:

Gia Coppola dreamily regards the fading twilight of what happens when a legend is forced to become a relic. As she hangs up the feathers and rhinestones of the longest running act on the Las Vegas Strip, a vulnerable and unvarnished Pamela Anderson makes it impossible to look away.

APRIL

In shatteringly uncomfortable long takes, Dea Kulumbegashvili challenges us to experience the heavy personal and professional tolls taken on by an OB-GYN following her conscience over the laws and customs in eastern Georgia. The consequences of her willingness to provide abortions in the remote villages comes into focus after a birth ( filmed from above in more actual detail than most health classes ever provide) results in unanticipated complications. Devastating and unflinching.

WE LIVE IN TIME

Well this sure is a perfectly-calibrated, very British, tragi-romance of the highest order. In a series of precision strikes directly at the ol heartstrings, the story proceeds simultaneously through meet-cute, tragic diagnosis, budding relationship, pregnancy, and a battle with cancer during a cooking Olympics. Florence Pugh has the biggest moments, but Andrew Garfield as emotional superconductor is the not-so-secret weapon.

THE WILD ROBOT

A movie about a lost robot and a cynical loner fox raising an orphan goose, plus the power of unlikely animal friendships? As if this gorgeously animated marvel was built in a lab specifically to make me weep. Task accomplished, satisfaction rating 10/10.

ROAD DIARY: BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN AND THE E STREET BAND

Are New Jersey’s finest rock and rollers still dynamic and vital after more than a half century of rocking? Yes, but you’ll have to take their word for it or see one of their arenas shows for yourself as proof. Thom Zimny’s lugubriously paced and inertly filmed Hulu-bound concert doc won’t convince you. It barely even plays the hits.

QUEER

Thought if anyone could make the smack-addled writings of William S Burrows romantic it would have to be Luca Guadagnino, but alas. He’s among the foremost channelers of the passions that drive men mad, but I remain immune to the allure of psychedelic travelogues. Daniel Craig strives mightily with a sweaty, horny, and disheveled performance as the writer in 1950s Mexico City. The soundtrack is another Reznor and Ross marvel with delicious Nirvana needle drops. And as far as slippery muses go, Drew Starkey is one hell of a drug.

EMILIA PÉREZ

To its enormous credit and occasional detriment, Jacques Audiard’s improbable musical is as mercurial as its title drug kingpin to society queen heroine. With something new every few minutes it’s never boring and has an enormous amount to say (sing). Karla Sofía Gascón gives a groundbreaking turn in the title role, Selena Gomez acquits herself well as a horny widow, and Adriana Paz makes a powerful impression with limited screen time. The movie’s all over the place, but it is at its best when Zoe Saldaña — as a lawyer tired of doing all of the work with none of the reward — and her ferocious intelligence is onscreen.

RUMOURS

Cate Blanchett must’ve owed Guy Maddin one hell of a favor. She stars as a German Chancellor in his latest (co-directed by Evan and Galen Johnson). It earns more than a few laughs as it skewers the modern political scene. But much like its broadly-drawn stereotypes of G7 leaders in an unspecified crisis, this satire quickly finds itself lost in the thick fog of mucky woods and never really finds its way toward making a profound statement, provisional or otherwise.

THE BRUTALIST

Immigration as flight from extinction, genius supplicant to fickle self-gratifying capitalism, a soaring American story told in concrete and steel. With Adrien Brody’s singular performance, Brady Corbet finally delivers one the year’s greatest films (in Vistavision, no less).

BABYGIRL

A quarter century after Eyes Wide Shut, Halina Reijn serves up a prickly and fun exploration of the dynamics of control, desire, and submission (also at Christmastime). Harris Dickinson is the boss whisperer. In Nicole Kidman, his intern’s intuition sees a CEO who matches his freak so he makes her … his nightbitch.